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COPYRrGHT DEPOSm 



THE LYRIC BOUGH 



BY 



CLINTON SCOLLARD 



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NEW YORK 

JAMES POTT ^ COMPANY 
1904 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAP 21 1904 

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CUSS £t XXa, N«. 

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COPY A. 



V 



11» 



Copyright, 1904, by 
JAMES POTT &= COMPANY 



The author desires to thank the editors of The 
Atlantic Monthly y The Century Magazine^ Harper's 
Magazine^ Scrihners Magazine^ and the other peri- 
odicals in which the poems in this collection origi- 
nally appeared, for their kind permission to reprint. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Soul to Body i 

The Gray Inn 2 

The Brothers 4 

The Sleeper 5 

The Dreamer 7 

A Vernal Song g 

The Hidden Beauty 11 

The Wind 12 

The Jessamine Bower .14 

April-Lover 16 

The Abbey by the Skell 18 

A Wanderer 20 

The Vernal Fire 22 

Stream Music 24 

The Summoner 25 

The Song 27 

Lyric Time 29 

The House Melodious 31 

When Violets are in their Prime . . -33 

Woodland Song 34 

Evening in Salisbury Close 35 



VI 



CONTENTS 



The Visitor 

Gaffer Time 

Where Echo Dwells 

A Summer Day . 

The Lure of the Woodland 

The Wood Thrush at Eve 

The Summons 

Halcyon Weather 

Poet and Lover 

The Night Beautiful 

The Questing Foot 

Summer Regnant 

A Summer Pastoral 

The Earth-Lover 

The Gypsy Wind 

Bee-Balm 

A Sunset Breeze 

An Idle Day 

The Halcyon 

Song of the Morning Stars . 

The Jester and the Butterflies 

Ivy Lane 

Of Rhyme 

Rain ...... 

Maid's Song in Mourning 
The Warbler .... 

Doves in the Rain 
An Autumn Song 



CONTENTS vii 

PAGE 

The Weaver 79 

The Pipes of Autumn 81 

Joy and Sorrow , 83 

Contrasts 84 

An Instrument 85 

Time 86 

The Haunts of Youth 87 

Snowfall 88 

Winter Dreams . ,89 

The White Birch 91 

Homesick 93 

Winter on the Hills 94 

A Winter Night 96 

The Old Year to the New 97 

In The Maple Wood 99 

Jim Crow loi 

Candlemas Song 103 

The Wanderer at Home 105 

The Isle of Glamourie 107 

The Fount of Pavenay 109 

azalais , .iii 

GuiDO, THE Gondolier 113 

Lift up Thine Eyes . 118 



// the things of earth must pass 
Like the dews upon the grass. 
Like the mists that break and run 
At the forward sweep of the sun, 
I shall be satisfied 
If only the dreams abide. 

Nay, I would not be shorn 

Of gold from the mines of morn! 

I would not be bereft 

Of the last blue flower in the cleft,— 

Of the haze that haunts the hills. 

Or the moon that the midnight fills! 

Still luould I know the grace 

Upon lovers uplifted face. 

And the slow, sweet joy-dawn there 

Under the dusk of her hair. 

I pray thee, spare me, Fate, 
The woeful, wearying weight 
Of a heart that feels no pain 
At the sob of the autumn rain. 
And takes no breath of glee 
From the organ-surge of the sea, — 
Of a mind where memory broods 
Over songless solitudes! 
I shall be satisfied 
If only the dreams abide. 



THE LYRIC BOUGH 



SOUL TO BODY 

And thus my Soul unto my Body said, 

With strenuous hardihead: 

" Hear thou this word ! 

The guests that thou wert wonted to invite 

For eye, or ear, or for sweet lip-delight, 

Shall not within this house be harbored! 

I have been midnight-mute, and not demurred, 

Alas, too long! 

Henceforward shall I sternly ward the door. 

To any knocking there, attaint with wrong, 

Ready to cry, ' No more ! ' 

Albeit fond familiars, fair of face, 

Come smilingly, they shall not step within, — 

Beauty, nor Blithesomeness, nor vernal Grace, — 

If these are but the glozing cloak of Sin ! 

Clean-swept are all the rooms, and garnished 

greenly. 
And set about with Purity's white flower; 
There sitteth Peace serenely 
From the clear stroke of this renewed hour ; 
Hereafter shall be incense lifted only 
To that pure Love that knoweth no alloy; 
And thou, O Body, thou shalt not be lonely 
With thy new comrade — Joy! " 



THE GRAY INN 

And at the last he came to a gray inn, 

About which all was gray, 

E'en to the sky that overhung the day; 

And though in time long lapsed it might have been 

Bedecked with tavern gauds, naught now it bore 

Above the shambling door 

Saving a creaky sign, 

Whereon the storm had blurred each limned line. 

The portal hung a-cringe. 

Belike to fall from off its one bruised hinge; 

And on the deep-set casement's leaded panes 

The spiders wove their geometric skeins. 

Hot weariness was on him, — he must rest; 

And though he deemed to find no other guest, 

No comradeship, within 

The ghostly grayness of that sombre inn, 

Lo, as he crossed the lintel he beheld. 

In the packed gloom 

Of the low-raftered room, 

One from whose eyes the mysteries of eld 

Shone in lack-lustre wise! 



THE GRAY INN 3 

And oh, the unfathomable strangeness of those eyes ! 

From boot to drooping plume 

Gray-garmented was he, and his still face 

Was like the wan sea when the banked clouds chase 

Above it through the winter's iron skies. 

One lean hand held a box of shaken dice. 

And in a trice 

This grim and gray one cried, " Come, throw with 

me! 
Long have I waited thee." 

And he late-entered answered, " Naught have I 
To wager! " And the gray one made reply, 
" Thou hast thy soul, and shouldst thou cast and 

win, 
Lo, all the hoarded treasure of this inn ! " 
They gripped and cast, but, ere he saw which won. 
The sleeper stirred and woke, — the dream was done ! 
Within his breast there throbbed a stabbing sting: 
That day, for wealth, and what its trappings bring, 
He knew his hand would do an evil thing. 



THE BROTHERS 

In a dim-Htten room 

I saw a weaver plying at his loom, 

That ran as swiftly as an agile rhyme; 

And lo, the workman at the loom was Time, 

Weaving the web of Life! 

Twas parti-colored, wrought of Peace and Strife; 

And through the warp thereof 

Shot little golden threads of Joy and Love. 

And one stood by whose eyes were brimmed with 

tears, 
Poising the mighty shears 

Wherewith, when seemed the weaver's will at ebb. 
He cut the wondrous web. 



Time weaves and weaves; and his dark brother, he 
Will one day cut the web for you and me. 



THE SLEEPER 

Above the cloistral valley, 

Above the druid rill, 
There lies a heavy sleeper 

Upon a lonely hill. 

All the long days of summer 
The low winds whisper by. 

And the soft voices of the leaves 
Make murmurous reply. 



All the long eves of autumn 

The loving shadows mass 
Round this sequestered slumbering-place 

Beneath the cool hill grass. 



All the long nights of winter 
The white drifts heap and heap 

To form a fleecy coverlet 
Above the dreamer's sleep. 
5 



THE SLEEPER 

All the long morns of springtime 
The tear-drops of the dew 

Gleam in the violets' tender eyes 
As if the blossoms knew. 



Ah, who would break the rapture 
Brooding and sweet and still, 

The great peace of the sleeper 
Upon the lonely hill! 



THE DREAMER 

Throughout his span of argent days 
From birth to death, — a narrow zone,- 

He wanders by untrodden ways, 
Alone, yet not alone. 

For ariel fancy moulds him mirth, 
A slave to work his lightest whim; 

And every vagrant wind of earth 
Is company for him. 

He sees a brother in the star 

Set on the evening's violet verge, 

And like his own the pulse-beats are 
In the deep ocean surge. 

He finds a fellow in the tree 
Reliant in its thews of power, 

And, rival of the lover bee, 
He woos the lady flower. 
7 



THE DREAMER 

He from the poet brook beguiles 
The secret of its clearest rhyme, 

And year on shortening year he smiles 
In the hard face of Time. 



So when he slips from earth at last, 
This alien in the clay, it seems 

As though from bondage he had passed 
To other dearer dreams. 



A VERNAL SONG 

Who's with me? Who's with me? 

Come, ye lads and lasses! 
For the bird is in the tree, 

And the south-wind passes, 
Making wooing melody 

In the leaning grasses! 

Every migrant of the earth 
Knows the sap runs mellow; 

Every thing of roving birth 
Feels the spring his fellow; 

Up and down, with flooding mirth, 
Capers Punchinello. 

Wheresoe'er we look abroad, 

Lo, the sky caresses! 
Cowslips perk and wind-flowers nod 

In their dainty dresses; 
Gleam upon the woodland sod 

Violets and cresses. 
9 



lo A VERNAL SONG 

Every laneway hath Its lure, 
Every path its pledges; 

There is happiness, be sure. 
Hidden in the hedges, 

And where rills go purling pure 
Down the mossy ledges. 



So, since joy is in the land, 
Come, ye lads and lasses! 

Let us rove, a loving band, 
Where the south-wind passes. 

Hand in hand, hand in hand. 
Through the leaning grasses! 



THE HIDDEN BEAUTY 

Behind the opalescence of the dawn, 

Noon's opulent sapphire, and that glory known 

As sunset, that nor pen nor brush can paint. 

There lurks a hidden beauty that the soul 

In its exalted moods attains unto, — 

An essence finer than the grosser sense 

Can grasp, too slight, too tenuous for words. 

Such beauty dawned upon young Raphael's eyes, 

And on the seer-like sight of Angelo; 

It came to Shakespeare amid London murk. 

And hung before the raptured gaze of Keats 

Until they laid him under Roman mould. 

Year-long we walk the world, our vision set 
Upon its dull and dead realities. 
"Away with dreams!" the strenuous moilers cry: 
" Fling all such foolish flimsies to the winds ! " 
O sightless ones! better an hour with dreams. 
Upon some hill-top hallowed by the morn, 
Than heaped days unlit by Beauty's face! 



THE WIND 

O THE wind is a faun in the spring-time 

When the ways are green for the tread of the 
May; 
List! hark his lay! 
Whist! mark his play! 

T-r-r-r-1 ! 
Hear how gay! 

O the wind is a dove in the summer 

When the ways are bright with the wash of the 
moon; 
List! hark him tune! 
Whist! mark him swoon! 

C-o-o-o-o ! 
Hear him croon! 

O the wind is a gnome in the autumn 

When the ways are brown with the leaf and burr ; 
Hist! mark him stir! 
List! hark him whir! 

S-s-s-s-t ! 
Hear him chirr! 

12 



THE WIND 13 

O the wind is a wolf in the winter 

When the ways are white for the horned owl; 
Hist! mark him prowl! 
List! hark him howl! 

G-r-r-r-1! 
Hear him growl! 



THE JESSAMINE BOWER 

I KNOW a bower where the jessamine blows, 
Far in the forest's remotest repose; 

If once the eyes have beholden the golden 
Chalices swinging, farewell to the rose! 

Just at the bloom-burst of dawn is the hour 
God must have fashioned the delicate flower, 

Wrought it of sunlight and thrilled it and filled it 
With a beguiling aroma for dower. 

Here hath the air an enchantment that seems 
Borne from the bourn of desire and of dreams, — 
Borne from the bourn of youth's longing where 
thronging 
Dwell all love's glories and glamours and gleams. 

Here doth the palm-plume o'er-droop and the pine; 
Here doth the wild-grape distil its dark wine; 

Here the chameleon, gliding and hiding. 
Changes its hues in the shade and the shine. 
14 



THE JESSAMINE BOWER 15 

Luring the lights are that falter and fail, — 
Beryl and amber and amethyst pale, 

Splashes of radiant splendor, and tender 
Tints as when twilight is deep in a dale. 



By no bold bees are the stillnesses stirred; 
Scarce is there bubble of song from a bird, 

Save for the turtle-dove's cooing and wooing,- 
Rapture without an articulate word. 



Sway on, O censers of bloom and of balm! 
Sweeten the virginal cloisters of calm! 

Be there one spot lovely, lonely, where only 
Peace is the priestess and silence the psalm! 



APRIL-LOVER 

April-lover, let us seek together 

Yon green slope beneath the summit snows, 
Footing blithely through the crystal weather 

Toward the spot where the arbutus blows! 



April-lover, hear the lyric valley 

Shouting all the vernal cries of earth! — 

Voice of brooks, and tongues of winds that rally. 
The sweet bird-recessional of mirth. 



April-lover, see the mounting splendor 
Of the sunshine marching on before! 

Mark the budding colors, twilight-tender. 
Revelling by rill and river shore! 



April-lover, scent the subtle attar, — 
Finer than from flowers of orient dye,- 

That the lavish courier-breezes scatter 
As they journey up and down the sky! 
i6 



APRIL-LOVER 17 

April-lover, ah, my April-lover, 

I at heart am with you when you say. 

There's no time like that when we discover 
Spring upon her olden, golden way! 



THE ABBEY BY THE SKELL 

In the abbey by the Skell, 

O the lapsing of the years 
Since the last monastic bell 

Sounded sad upon the ears 
Of the holy men who there 
Bowed in final praise and prayer! 



All day long the doves make moan 

In the over-topping tower; 
From the crevices of stone 

Waves the grass and nods the flower; 
And yet still doth grandeur dwell 
In the abbey by the Skell. 



Gone are porch and pillar; gone 
Are the windows grand that gave, 

At the blossom-burst of dawn, 
Such a glory to the nave, 

Such a soft, celestial spell 

To the abbey by the Skell. 
i8 



THE ABBEY BY THE SKELL 19 

Mourns the immemorial yew 
In the cloisters green and wide 

For the brother band that grew 
By the singing river's side; 

Now but one its tale can tell 

Of the abbey by the Skell. 

What a sermon here is writ 

By the ancient hand of Time! 
We have paused to ponder it, 

And would weave the text in rhyme 
Ere we breathe our low farewell 
To the abbey by the Skell. 

By a miracle of birth 

Beauty buddeth from decay, 
So a godly work on earth 

Never fadeth quite away. 
Though it be not tangible 
Like the abbey by the Skell. 



A WANDERER 

Now that the gulfs of dusk are deep, 

And birds have hushed their happy themes, 

I wander down the aisles of sleep 
Hung with the tapestry of dreams. 

The little silvery winds go by 

With fluting softly passional; 
The stars march up the midnight sky. 

And yet I heed them not at all. 

For I have felt the enchanter's wand, 
And know my soul, released once more. 

As elemental as the frond 

Amid the mosses by the shore. 

What now to me the coil of clay, 

Since I may fare, at my desire. 
Beyond the azure bourns of day. 

Beyond the utmost planet's fire! 



A WANDERER 

All nature's vast, mysterious face 
'Tis mine, — an intimate, — to see; 

I taste for just a breathing space 
The freedom of eternity. 

A breathing space! — and then, — and then, 
The robins' matins, and I rouse, 

To find that I am once again 
In my contracted prison-house. 



THE VERNAL FIRE 

From tip to tip of the briar 
I see it kindle and run, — 

The mystical, vernal fire 
Whose source is the sun. 



Along the slopes it thrills. 
Greening the umber mould, 

And it spangles the marge of the rills 
With the cowslip-gold. 



It flashes out on the cheek 

That the rathe hepatica turns; 

And the violet, shy and meek, 
With its ardor burns. 



Every bearing bough 

Is prescient, and every blade, 
From the mountain's brackened brow 

To the depths of the glade. 



THE VERNAL FIRE 23 

I feel it, too, — am fain 

With a touch of the old desire; 
My lost youth comes again 

With the vernal fire. 



Love, your hand once more! 

Would that the dream might stay, — 
The rapt dream o'er and o'er, 

For aye and a day! 



STREAM MUSIC 

Whene'er I wander up and down the world, 
Treading the shores of its great water-ways, 
And listening to their tidal undertones, — 
The Rhine, the Rhone, the Danube, or the Nile,- 
'Tis not their music that I seem to hear, 
(Their laughing trebles, or deep organ-strains,) 
But rather the clear singing of a stream 
That flows melodious by the doors of home! 
My ear may not escape it; and, at last, 
When it shall be my turn upon the tide 
Of the Dark River to adventure forth, 
It shall be then as now. I know the sound 
Will not portentous seem, nor sad, nor strange. 
But soft and soothing as the murmur borne 
In days of childhood by the doors of home! 



24 



THE SUMMONER 

'TwAS this morning when the winds were rocking 
Larch and linden with a rhythmic swing, 

That the crested woodpecker came knocking 
For admission at the door of Spring. 

" Open open ! " seemed he to be saying, 
" For the portal has been shut too long; 

We are grown impatient for the Maying, 
And the sweet processional of song! 

" For the buoyant outring of brook-laughter ; 

For the meadows goldening to smiles; 
For the soft green on the woodland rafter. 

And the bloom-burst down the forest aisles!" 



Still I saw about me glow and glisten 
Ancient Winter's white environing. 

As I leaned in eagerness to listen 
To the sibyl answer of the Spring. 
25 



26 THE SUMMONER 

Then, responsive to the bird's insistence, 
From the margin of some cloistral shore 

Came a murmur up the hollow distance, 
" On the morrow will I ope the door! " 



Hail, thou summoner of the azure weather, 
Herald of Spring's portal backward thrown! 

With another sunrise we together 
Once again shall win unto our own! 



THE SONG 

Out of wind and sun and dew 
I would shape a song for you! 

First from out the wind should be 
Happy hints of melody; 
Little rippling slips of tone, 
To the ear of evening known; 
Tiny echoes of the shell 
Breathed into by ocean's swell; 
Lark-note, nightingale and thrush, 
Rustling bough and river rush. 

Then the sun should yield its shine, 
Golden words for every line; 
Glints of skyey amber ore, — 
Simile and metaphor; 
Throbbing wave-beats, vital, warm. 
Passion in its noblest form. 
Morning's ecstasy of light 
After the surcease of night. 
27 



28 THE SONG 

From the globe of dew should come 
Crystals of exordium; 
Essences of prismy blend 
Joining opening and end; 
And a close of flawless pearl, 
Whorl upon pellucid whorl; 
Every thought as virgin clear 
As the perfect parent sphere. 

Out of wind and sun and dew 
I would shape a song for you! 



LYRIC TIME 

Now the sap begins to climb 
In the linden and the lime; 

With it mounts the olden rapture; 
Masters, it is lyric time! 

Young desire along the vein 
Quickens to a throbbing strain, 

And the spirit fain would capture 
Vanished ecstasy again. 



Flushing into prismy hues. 
Every dormant thing renews; 

All along each vernal valley 
Countless colors form and fuse. 



Every thicket over-spills 
With a myriad mellow trills; 

Sally upon silvery sally 
Echoes up and down the hills. 
29 



30 LYRIC TIME 

Runs from tree to vocal tree 
An elusive harmony; 

Now a whisper faint and fleeting, 
Now a chorus full and free. 



Brook to singing brook replies; 
Fount with welling fountain vies; 

O the music of the meeting 
Of the mountains and the skies! 



Dawn or sunset, — dim or bright,- 
Every hour evokes delight; 

To evolve the perfect paean 
Sun and moon and stars unite. 



Life seems set to smoother rhyme. 
And the trivial grows sublime; 
Under God's blue empyrean, 
Masters, it is lyric time! 



THE HOUSE MELODIOUS 

There's a mighty house of marvels builded 
Wherein all the spacious rooms are free; 

With warm sunlight are the rafters gilded, 
And with sapphire gleams the high roof-tree. 



'Tis a house no human master fashioned, 
Tremulous with sudden hopes and fears; 

God aforetime reared it to the impassioned 
Vibrant music of the swinging spheres. 



Not in one diurnal round he raised it. 
But with slow accretions moulded he; 

And when he beheld his work he praised it, 
And he dowered its heart with melody. 



Spreading arch and spraying plinth and pillar. 
Night-tide, bright-tide, never are they mute,- 

Now high pipings than the hautboy shriller. 
Now low whisperings softer than the lute! 
31 



32 THE HOUSE MELODIOUS 

Far as the imagination ranges, — 
Tempest and tranquillity of tone, — 

Here are all the sweet mysterious changes 
That unto the ear of man are known! 



Aye, and when the radiant morn is gilding 
Where the immemorial roof-tree rears, 

One may feel how God is ever building 
To the music of the swinging spheres! 



WHEN VIOLETS ARE IN THEIR PRIME 

When violets are in their prime, 

And skies are like my true love's eyes, 
When we forget the rut and rime 
In hearkening to the thrush's cries, 
Howe'er so sweet the minstrelsy 
Within doors with the poets be, 
'Tis not for me, 'tis not for me ! 



Merry, forsooth, the ingle-mirth, 

When days are brief and nights are long! 
And if the leaguer walk the earth, 
Dear, then, the solacing of song; 
But now for me the rillet's rhyme. 
The wooing airs, the wild bird's chime. 
When violets are in their prime! 



33 



WOODLAND SONG 

Voices are calling us out of the dingle, — 

" Come away! " — so they say, — " come away! 
Musical voices that mellowly mingle; 

" Here," they declare, " 'mid the ferns and the 

mosses, 
You may lay by all your losses and crosses! 
Out through the gold of the day 
Come away! " 

" Under the trees there is waiting a treasure! 

" Come away! " — ^voices say, — " come away! 
O such a manifold measure of pleasure; — 
Worry forgotten ; no care for a burden ; 
Freedom for friend and heart- joy for a guer- 
don; 
Through the fresh green of the May 
Come away ! " 



34 



EVENING IN SALISBURY CLOSE 

The sudden sunlight swept the minster-close, 
Day's expiation for its hours of gloom; 
And every figure on the fair fagade, 
Each saint with hand uplifted, gained a grace, 
A happier halo than the sculptor's art, 
Howe'er so marvel-working, had bestowed. 
Only the pillared porch and those deep eyes, 
The windows wide that ever watch the west. 
Caught the wind-wavering shadows of the elms. 
All the great Gothic glory of the spire 
Reached heavenward irradiate; gray to gold 
By momentary magic turned, and poised 
Like some aerial pinnacle of dream. 
And while the sight hung on the miracle. 
Out of the silent symmetry of the tower 
Slipped down the unseen silver of the chimes. 
Softer than snowfall, soothing as the sense 
Of slumber after vigils held till dawn. 



35 



THE VISITOR 

Without my door at morning-tide 
There rang a summons hale and fair; 

I roused and threw the portal wide, 
And lo, young April there! 

I saw the sunlight in her eyes, 
And her anemone lips aglow; 

She beckoned in beguiling wise; 
I could not choose but go. 

The grass beneath her quickening feet 
Rippled with silvery green once more. 

And many a rill ran singing sweet 
By many a leaning shore. 

She led me high among the hills 

By paths that wilding wanderers use, 

Where the magician Morn distils 
The honey of his dews. 
36 



THE VISITOR 37 

Bloom-secrecies she showed to me, 

The coils through which all being stirs, 

Till, spelled by her soft witchery. 
My heart was wholly hers. 

So now when up the year's bright slope 
A call comes ringing o'er and o'er, 

I fling the portal wide, in hope 
'Tis April at the door. 



GAFFER TIME 

Oh, who has seen gray Gaffer Time 
Along this broad highway pass by? 

Will no one speak, will no one say. 
Of all this noble company? 



Youth, have you seen gray Gaffer Time? 

"Nay," answered gay-heart Youth; "not I! 
Though I be fleet, he tops the hill, 

And speeds afar ere I draw nigh." 



Age, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? 

" Nay," halting Age replied ; "not I ! 
Though I have laid him many a snare, 

He slips through every mesh I try." 

Joy, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? 

"Nay," answered smiling Joy; "not I! 
Why should I care to look for one 

Who makes a mockery of my cry? " 

38 



GAFFER TIME 39 

Sorrow, hast thou seen Gaffer Time? 

" Nay," glooming Sorrow quoth; " not I! 
Still he evades my questing step, 

Albeit our paths together lie." 

Love, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? 

" Nay," white-browed Love replied ; " not I ! 
Though I have begged him show his face, 

Yet he vouchsafes me no reply." 



Death, hast thou seen gray Gaffer Time? 

"Nay," answered quiet Death; "not I! 
Why should I tryst with such as he, 

Who is of those that do not die ? " 



Then none has seen gray Gaffer Time 
Of all so wise a company; 

And I who seek him up and down, 
Alas! alas! what chance have I? 



WHERE ECHO DWELLS 

Some summer morn immersed in calm, 
When every wafture breathes of balm, 
Take you the pathway under hill, 
Night-haunted by the whippoorwill, 
Until, where beech and birch confer. 
And hemlocks make their harp-like stir, 
A sweeping amphitheatre 
Opes, golden green, upon the view; 
There Echo dwells, and waits for you. 



The elderberry every hour 
Adds to the purple of its dower; 
With every dusk, with every dawn, 
The mandrake fruit takes amber on; 
A gossip brook gives happy hint 
Of spruce and sassafras and mint; 
While overhead, a luring tint. 
The vast vault arches, virgin blue; 
There Echo dwells, and waits for you. 
40 



WHERE ECHO DWELLS 41 

If you bespeak her loud or low, 
At night-heart, or at morning-glow, 
Trump-clear, or subtle-sweet and shy. 
Swiftly her voice will make reply. 
Never beheld, or near or far, 
Elusive as blown perfumes are, 
Evasive as a falling star. 
With all her ariel retinue. 
Fair Echo dwells, and waits for you! 



A SUMMER DAY 

Again across the calm of morn 

The sharp cicada shrills; 
Again the pee-wee, lone and lorn, 

Pipes from the wooded hills; 
And meadow-ward athwart the plain 
Slow moves the harvest wain. 



Again the fever of the noon 
Touches the toiler's brow; 

Again in haze the grain-fields swoon, 
And lifeless hangs the bough; 

Again the rill, its course along, 

Hushes its under-song. 



Again the pensive eve draws on. 
And earth's fast-closing eyes 

A space are raised to dwell upon 
The wonder of the skies; 

Again untroubled, boundless, deep. 

Broods the vast sea of sleep. 



42 



THE LURE OF THE WOODLAND 

Green o' leaf, sheen o' leaf, tremulous, wavery, 
Where down the aisleways the errant airs blow; 

Arras of maple-boughs, — emerald bravery! 
Always the twilight, and never the glow. 

Wren-call and glen-call, — a thrush fluting mel- 
lowly, — 

And a far whippoorwill, mournful and faint, 
Then a near robin-note, friendly and fellowly. 

And the small phoebe-bird's die-away plaint. 

Rook-gabble, brook-babble ; jewel-weed shimmering ; 

And the tall bee-balm with torches alight j 
And in the darksomemost recesses glimmering, 

Lo, the white ghost-flowers, like stars in the night ! 

Lure o' heart, every part, — mystery, magicry; 

Wonder ! — a world of it hid from the day ! 
Cure for care everywhere, balm for life's tragicry; 

Up, then, my comrade, and let us away! 



43 



THE WOOD THRUSH AT EVE 

At the wood edge, what time the sun sank low, 
We lingered speechless, being loath to leave 
The cool, the calm, the quiet touch of eve. 

And all the glamour of the afterglow. 

We watched the purple shadows lengthen slow, 
Saw the swift swallows through the clear air 

cleave, 
And bats begin their wa5rward flight to weave, 

Then rose reluctantly, and turned to go. 

But ere we won beyond the warder trees, 

From out the dim deep copse that hid the swale 

Welled of a sudden flutelike harmonies 

Flooding the twilight, scale on silvery scale. 

As though we heard, far o'er the sundering seas, 
The pain and passion of the nightingale. 



44 



THE SUMMONS 

I HEAR the morning calling me 

Through the shut casement, fresh and clear; 
" Come forth, O laggard one," saith she, 

" And taste the sweetness of the year ! 

" Lo, I will spread before your eyes 

The pageant you have yearned for long; 

I will unfold, in lyric wise, 

The dreamed-of ecstasies of song. 

" Before you up the hills shall run 
Mirth, and her frolic-footed brood; 

Along the valleys shall the sun 
Gem all the dews, in golden mood. 

" The little brethren of the boughs 

Shall shake their laughters down the wind; 

And you shall list the whispered vows 
Of vine and blossom intertwined." 

45 



46 THE SUMMONS 

At such a call, he who would bide 
Within would be a thing for scorn! — 

I toss my tiresome task aside, 

And hasten forth to greet the morn. 



HALCYON WEATHER 

Here's to the halcyon weather, 

And the wild, unfettered will, 
The crickets chirring, the west wind stirring 

The hemlocks on the hill! 
Here's to the faring foot, and here's to the dream- 
ing eye! 

And here's to the heart that will not be still 
Under the open sky! 

Ever the gypsy longing 

Comes when the halcyons wing ; 
Once you own it, once you have known it. 

Oh, the thrall of the thing! 
A flute-call and a lute-call, quavering loud or low, 

It clutches you with its rapturing, 
And it will not let you go! 

So it's hail to you, my rover, 

The god-child of the sun! 
In our heir-dom, — freedom from care-dom, — 

You and I are one! 

47 



48 HALCYON WEATHER* 

One with the many migrants, field-folk feathered 
or furred, 
Ever ready to rally and run 
At the sign of the silvery word! 



The ways we were wont to follow, 

We are fain of them no more; 
Rather the braided boughs and the shaded 

Paths by the rillet shore! — 
The tansy hints and the myrrh of mints, and the 
balms that the balsams shed, 

The berries, crimson-sweet at the core. 
By these are we lured and led. 



Then here's to the halcyon weather. 

And the old, untrammelled will, — 
Cicadas tuning, the west wind crooning 

Behind the crest of the hill! 
Here's to the truant foot, and here's to the dream- 
ing eye! 

And here's to the heart that will not be still 
Under the open sky! 



POET AND LOVER 

Thou say'st that thou hast seen 
One tread this greening way 

Whose mood and mien 

Were like the flush of day! 

Looked she sun-wayivard smiles? 

"Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. 

Thou say'st that thou hast heard 
One fleet this path along 

Whose every word 

Was like a matin song! 

Joined bird and brook the whiles? 

"Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. 

Thou say'st that thou hast known 
One, lightly footing, pass, 

Sweet as wind-blown 

Eve-perfumes from the grass! 

Breathed she all flowery wiles? 

"Aye! aye!" quoth Giles. 
49 



50 POET AND LOVER 

O most ecstatic glow! 

O wondrous visioning! 
To hear, to know, 

The Spirit of the Spring! 
What folly thee beguiles? 
" 'Twas Sylvia ! " quoth Giles. 



THE NIGHT BEAUTIFUL 

Day-long the fiery and unpitying sun 

Flamed in a sky that glowed like burnished brass ; 

Dun stretched the ribbon of the road, and dun 
The reaches of the grass. 

In the still willow shadows by the pool 
The cattle herded, standing dewlap-deep; 

And all the beechen aisles, erewhile so cool, 
Were sunk in fervid sleep. 

But with the dusk the vesper ecstasies 

Of the charmed wood-thrush stirred our hearts 
to hope; 
And then there breathed the blessing of a breeze 

Adown the western slope. 

The graceful garden-primrose set alight 
Its little globes of lemon-gold, and soon 

High in the deep blue garden of the night 
Flowered the great primrose moon. 
51 



52 THE NIGHT BEAUTIFUL 

And we forgot the garishness, the glare, 

The parching meadows, and the shrunken streams. 

And in the glamour of that magic air 
We gave ourselves to dreams. 



THE QUESTING FOOT 

Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root, 
This is the time of the questing foot! — 



Time to loiter and laze along, 

With never a thought save of meadow-song. 



Or of woodland silence that filters through 
To your spirit's core like the balm of dew! 



Only a wisp of a cloud above, 

White as the dreams of the one you love. 



Underneath, a turf whose sheen 

Is the very glossiest gold and green; 



A wind that lures you with subtle hints 
Of upland balsams and lowland mints; 
S3 



54 THE QUESTING FOOT 

A something, — call it charm or spell,- 
Elusive and intangible, 



That leads one ever and ever away 
On to the purple verge of day. 



Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root, 
O to fare on the questing foot! 



SUMMER REGNANT 

With sweet reluctance In her golden eyes 

Summer hath put the imperial rose away, 
And donned her poppy-crown, whose gorgeous dyes 

Are like the skies of the declining day; 

The minstrel wind that erst was wont to say 
Musical matins at the prime of morn 

Now swoons within the pine-tree tops afar; 
And when the bee forsakes his drowsy horn, 

Red glows the evening star. 

It is the season of forgetfulness, 

And e'en the sharp cicada, fifing high. 

Jars us not back to any sense of stress; 
We are content to let the hours slip by 
As doth the stream that lapseth languidly; 

Why should we tease ourselves to find the clue 
To life's enigmas, — whence, and why, and 
where, — 

With o'er us brooding such ethereal blue, 
Such vasts of halcyon air! 
55 



S6 SUMMER REGNANT 

In opulence of calm enough to dwell 

On all the engirdling beauty, — to give o'er 
To the inthralment of the slumberous spell, 

Letting it clasp us as the sea the shore! 

Like those that drink mandragora, no more 
We heed the future, or what dead days owned; 

For us the present, and our realm of dream. 
Where, by the side of Summer, sits enthroned 

Love, regnant and supreme! 



A SUMMER PASTORAL 

I KNOW a little glade wherein to dwell, 

When poppy-garlands crown the drowsing year, 
Were honeyed happiness, — for I might hear 

The hermit-thrush at twilight from his cell 

Salute the love-star, and might feel the spell 
That Hylas yielded to, for subtile-clear 
The pool there limns the deep eyes of the deer, 

And winds bear draughts of dreamy hydromel. 

And closer might I win to Arcady, 

For reeds there are to pluck and notch and tune, 
As in the simpler, happier days of man ; 
And if I blew, and Echo answered me, 

Sooth, I might fancy, underneath the moon, 
Slim maidens dancing to the pipes of Pan ! 



57 



THE EARTH-LOVER 

Be it sad or singing season, 

Time of mourning or of mirth, 

With a lover's blithe unreason 
His a passion for the earth. 



Of the wealth of his affection 

Seed and leaf and sheaf have part; 

And he takes, without reflection. 
Every growing thing to heart. 



Weft of grass and blossom-petal, 
Root of flag and tip of reed, 

Barb of thorn and sting of nettle, — 
Each contributes to his need. 



And a love he would not smother 
Is for the fresh-turned red loam. 

Since he knows that, like a mother. 
It will one day call him home. 

58 



THE EARTH-LOVER «;9 

From the old familiar places 

He will by it be beguiled. 
And within its warm embraces 

Slumber softly as a child. 



THE GYPSY WIND 

The gypsy wind goes down the night, 
I hear him lilt his wander-call; 

And to the old divine delight 
Am I a thrall. 



It's out, my heart, beneath the stars 
Along the hillways dim and deep! 

Let those who will, behind dull bars, 
Commune with sleep! 

For me the freedom of the sky. 
The violet vastnesses that seem 

Packed with a sense of mystery 
And brooding dream! 

For me the low solicitudes 

The tree-tops whisper, each to each, 
The silences wherein intrudes 

No mortal speech! 
60 



THE GYPSY WIND 6i 

For me far subtler fragrances 

Than any spell of morn transmutes, 

And melodies and minstrelsies 
From fairy lutes! 



My cares, — the harrying throng take flight. 
My woes, — they lose their galling sting, 

When I, with the hale wind of night, 
Go gypsying! 



BEE-BALM 

The bee is abroad 

In the zenith heat of noon, 
When all of the winds are awed, 

And the waters swoon. 



The meads are asleep, 

But never a buzz cares he; 
Down in the dingle deep 

There's balm for the bee. 



Here are torches gay 

Spangled with scarlet fire, 

To light the dusk of the way 
To his heart's desire. 



What a bounteous brew 
Awaiteth his thirsty call! — 

Casks of honey-dew 
For the bacchanal. 



62 



A SUNSET BREEZE 

All of the livelong day there was scarcely a rustle 
of leaves, 
The writhing river burned like a molten serpent 
of fire; 
The reaper dropped his scythe, and the binder fled 
from his sheaves, 
And a breeze on the throbbing brow was the 
world's supreme desire. 



When the disk of the sun dipped down there sprang 
from out of the west 
A sudden wafture of wind that crinkled the un- 
mown grain; 
The kine were glad in the field, and the bird was 
glad on the nest. 
And the heart of the mother leaped that her 
prayer was not in vain. 
63 



64 A SUNSET BREEZE 

For the sunset breeze stole in with healing upon 
its breath, 
Winnowed the fevered air with a single sweeten- 
ing sweep; 
Out of the back-swung door slipped the pallid angel 
of death, 
And lo, as the mother knelt, the baby smiled in 
its sleep! 



AN IDLE DAY 

This day will I cast off the coil 
Of aging worry and of toil, 
And seek the soothing soul-caress 
Of Idleness. 



For sometimes it is well to be 
Both body-free and spirit-free, 
To own no gyve, no cincturing wall. 
No thrall at all. 

The harper wind strides o'er the hill; 
His truant will I make my will; 
Two jovial comrades, forth we hie 
Beneath the sky. 

We loiter; who shall cry us " nay? " 
We hasten; who shall bid us stay? 
By stream or woodland-side we brood, 
As suits our mood. 

65 



66 AN IDLE DAY 

And ah, the golden grain I reap 
From this one long, from this one deep 
Day-dwelling, in the dream-duress 
Of Idleness! 



I slough the husk of discontent, 
And feel no longer hedged and pent; 
I look on all that round me lies 
With saner eyes. 

I gather from the bounteous earth 
A quiet joy, an inner mirth; 
And life, where'er I pass along. 
Seems set to song. 



THE HALCYON 

I SEE thee on yon sycamore's wounded bough, 
Apart from all the wood choir's silvery noise, 

Sit like a mournful watcher at the prow, 
In lonely equipoise. 

Yet thou art harbinger of all things fair. 

For o'er regenerate earth now seems to brood 

The immaterial loveliness of air. 
The sky's blue vastitude. 



67 



SONG OF THE MORNING STARS 

Through the abysses of the sky 
Surge upon surge the years sweep by, 
Yet still our spheral voices chime, 
For we are over-lords of Time. 



We view all secrets face to face, — 
The deep solemnities of space. 
The rayless voids of outer sea, 
The courts of God's eternity. 



It is our bliss to be above 
All passions save eternal Love, 
And this our choral lips rehearse 
Throughout the listening universe. 



So shall the centuries wax and wane 
Till Song and Love alone remain. 
And all shall join our deathless chime. 
Like us the over-lords of Time. 



68 



THE JESTER AND THE BUTTERFLIES 

Fair elves of frolic, dancers of the air, 

Gay pirouetters in the noonday sun, 

Blithe summer nurslings with your lives soon done. 
Would I might all of your abandon share ! 
You know not age; 'tis never yours with spare 

And tottering Decrepitude to shun 

The primrose pathways that Youth smiles upon, 
Who are like Youth forever debonair. 

Thus would I fain adventure; have my day 
Bright in the splendid sunlight; never feel 
The clutching cold that lies in wait for Age; 
Trip to the summer's jocund roundelay 
The madsomest, the merriest, then steal 

Sudden and swift from off life's comic stage! 



69 



IVY LANE 

(a seventeenth century love song) 

Ivy Lane In Devon, — 

That's the place for me! 
The sweet air mellow 

With the burden of the bee; 
High up in heaven 

The blue, blue glow; 
But Ivy Lane in London, — 

O no, no! 



Bare walls sullen 

In the grim gray air; 
Close-shut windows 

With a cold blank stare; 
Never lark or linnet 

A-warbling low; 
Ivy Lane in London, — 

O no, no! 

70 



IVY LANE 71 

But Ivy Lane in Devon, — 

Sunlight and song, 
And beauty of blossoms 

The glad day long; 
Then love in the twilight 

With starry eyes aglow . . . 
Ivy Lane in London, — 

O no, no! 

Ivy Lane in London, — 

Stress and strain and strife, 
All of the sweetness 

Hurried out of life! 
But far from the clamor 

By the wide west sea, 
Ivy Lane in Devon, — 

That's the place for me! 



OF RHYME 

Not for mine ear 

The rigid rhyme austere, 

But that which swings and sways with mellow beat, 

And soft recurrence of alluring feet! 

Not for mine eye 

The palely sculptured line. 

But that which hath the shimmer and the shine 

Of skyey metaphor, the mid-day dye 

Of golden simile, and clearly shows 

Imagination's emerald and rose! 

Bird, brook, and wind-call ; the wild pulse of storm ; 

All life's unnumbered colors, sweet and warm ; 

Rapture and sorrow; the swift flux of time; — 

These would I have both sing and glow in rhyme ! 



72 



RAIN 

I HEAR the soft re-iterance of the rain 

Upon the roof above me, like a tune 

With melancholy measure, one as hoar 

As are the silent footfalls of old Time. 

And though the burden borne unto mine ear 

Runs in the plaintive minor, yet my mood 

Is rather one of rapture than of pain. 

Albeit alone, the demon loneliness 

Is by a kindly angel exorcised ; 

I brush aside the cobwebs of the years 

As one breaks gossamer, and cloudy morns. 

And likewise long unazured afternoons. 

Are quick again. Eyes on responsive eyes 

Linger and flash; voice answers friendly voice, 

And laughter soars as does the thrush uncaged. 

High 'neath the eaves upon the hills of hay 

The boys, now gray, touch hand and heart again. 

Whiles with insistent monotone above 

Murmurs the rain-song. Ah, I love the sound, — 

The soothing, soft re-iterance of the rain! 



73 



MAID'S SONG IN MOURNING 

Hours that once had swallow wings 
Poise on heavy pinions now; 

Reft of all its rapturings, 

Silent hangs the singing bough. 

Down the wind the voices call, 

And like, tears the raindrops fall. 

Skies may beam with blue again. 
Birds may come to woo again. 

But not here for me, dear, and not here for you 
again! 

Barren are the ways where erst 
Foot to foot kept married time; 

Joy is like a bubble burst, 

There's a jar in every rhyme. 

Ah, my heart were not a-cold 

Had I, love, thy hand to hold ! 

Spring will lift the gloom again. 
Rise from out the tomb again. 
But not here for us, dear, the bud or the bloom 
again/ 

74 



THE WARBLER 

Warbler, of the pale gold breast, 
Whither, whither away? 

The wind is wild about the nest, 
And into the sunset or the dawn 
The cherished nestlings all are gone; 

Heigh-ho! and well-a-day! 

Warbler, whither away? 

Warbler, of the pale gold breast, 
There's ever a home, you say, — 

Or be it east, or be it west; 

But ah, how sad to build and find 
No nestling one day but the wind ! 

Heigh-ho! and well-a-day! — 

That's what the lone hearts say. 



75 



DOVES IN THE RAIN 

Dull and ashen the day; 

Drip, — you may hear the eaves; 

Drip, — you may see the leaves; 

Rillets bubble and run; 

Never a gleam of sun 

While the gray hours wear away. 

Over the slanting slates, 
Under the cupola's crown, 
Snowy and blue and brown. 
Crouch the forms of the doves. 
Cooing their matin loves, 
Mates to amorous mates. 



Lo, the gloom is gone, 
Fades like a deep night dream, 
Lost in the sunrise beam! 
Dazzles before my eyes 
The sweep of Venice skies, 
With their pageantry of dawn; 
76 



DOVES IN THE RAIN 77 

Venice skies and the square, — 
San Marco's domes ashlne 
Like the amber Asti wine; 
The giant in the tower 
Hammering out the hour 
On the hush of the southern air. 



This, and the throng of doves 
On the palace cornices, 
Flocking crevice and frieze. 
With flutter and perk and preen 
In the gold-shot azure sheen. 
As they murmur of their loves. 

Woo and coo again! — 

Yea, I am well content 

With all that is blurred and blent 

(Hours of the radiant past 

As though in a mirror glassed) 

In the rhythmic fall of the rain! 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

Again the old heraldic pomp 
Of Autumn on the hills; 

A scarlet pageant in the swamp; 
Low lyrics from the rills; 

And a rich attar in the air 
That orient morn distils. 



Again the tapestry of haze 

Of amethystine dye 
Encincturing the horizon ways; 

And from the middle sky 
The iterant, reverberant call 

Of wild geese winging by. 



Again the viols of the wind 
Attuned to one soft theme; — 

Here, every burden left behind, 
O love, would it not seem 

A near approach to paradise 

To dream and dream and dream! 



78 



THE WEAVER 

Who is it weaves such marvellous tapestries 
In dyes that dazzle if the eyes but scan? 

Richer of hue and of design are these 
Than fabrics Tyrian! 

Yonder is cloth of gold more royal bright 
Than that whereon King Henry Francis met, 

When they put by the mailed gage of fight 
For friendship's silken net. 



That russet there is of a glossier sheen 

Then e'er was donned by merry Robin Hood, 

To lead his lads, who wore the Lincoln green, 
Through Sherwood's shadowy wood. 



And yonder scarlet braver far appears 

Than that which decked the pennons of the bold 

Who urged the lines of the embattled spears 
Through the red wars of old. 
79 



8o THE WEAVER 

Who is this weaver in these wondrous dyes 
That works such magic in the hours of gloom? 

Go, and perchance to-night you may surprise 
September at her loom! 



THE PIPES OF AUTUMN 

A THRILL as of exuberant will 
The rfmpling corn-fields know, 

As o'er the vale and up the hill 
The pipes of Autumn blow. 

Across the orchards tremors toss, 

And golden ripples run 
O'er hillocks where the milkweed's floss 

Is shimmering in the sun. 

Once more beside the runlet's shore 

The violet opes its eyes; 
Once more the dandelion's ore 

As though May-minted lies. 



A-blur with gleamy gossamer 

Is every upland lawn; 
The woodland, save where glooms the fir, 

Is wrapt in dreams of dawn. 
8i 



82 THE PIPES OF AUTUMN 

Like spring's the last fleet whir of wings, 

The last low lyric cry 
That down the hazy distance rings 

To dip and faint and die. 



A thrill takes hold upon the will 
And sets the cheeks aglow, 

As o'er the vale and up the hill 
The pipes of Autumn blow. 



JOY AND SORROW 

Shall we let Joy go by, 

He of the kindling eye? 

Nay, comrade, nay! 

But lo, he wends his uncompanioned way! 



Shall we bid Sorrow bide, 

He that is mournful-eyed? 

Nay, comrade, nay! 

But lo, he lingers, bidden not to stay! 



83 



CONTRASTS 

After the long green levels of the plain, 

The primrose ways, the scented paths of thyme, 

Welcome the slopes that stir the dormant vein, 
The soaring cliffs that dare the feet to climb ! 



After the dull monotonies of life, 

The placid days that with no ripple roll, 

Welcome the strain, the stinging taste of strife. 
The immitigable stress that tests the soul! 



84 



AN INSTRUMENT 

A HUMAN heart, this was the instrument 

That many, dowered with cunning skill, essayed; 

Joy fingered it, and Fear above it bent. 
And Sorrow her pale hands upon it laid. 



Then Anger smote it, and Despondency, 

And Passion swept it with his touch of flame; 

But it gave forth no wondrous melody 
Till Love, the masterful musician, came. 



85 



TIME 

Time oft is limned decrepit, wizened, old, 

With wintry hair rough shaken by the breeze, 

One who on life has but a feeble hold, 
A graybeard ambling upon tottering knees. 



Ah, the dull folly of such portraiture! 

Time gray? Time old? See how he runs, for- 
sooth ! 
Within his veins there courses, swift and sure, 

The Olympian ichor of eternal youth! 



86 



THE HAUNTS OF YOUTH 

Doubter, say, wouldst thou behold 
Essence that is never old? 
Wouldst thou gaze and dwell upon 
Energies that sing and run 
Ever vital, true and tense 
In their vernal innocence? 
From thy dullard dreamery 
Rise thou, then, and come with me 
Where the forest shadovi^s fall! — 
There is youth perpetual. 

Never burn the fires so low 
Underneath the shroud of snow 
That they are not swift to leap 
Lissome from the trance of sleep; 
E'en behind the deepest moan 
Hides a hint of virile tone; 
In the darkest shades withdrawn 
Waits the golden lily, — dawn! 
Youth, the forest's fairest thrall, 
Youth abides perpetual. 



87 



SNOWFALL 

Stainless as Truth, or Purity's white face, 
Behold the snow fall! Never came a dream 
On lighter pinions from the courts of Sleep. 
What is as soft as this aerial fleece. 
This visual foam upon the unseen air. 
Unless it be the sweep of seraph's wings 
Down the inviolate ways of Paradise! 
Or, cool on the contracted brow of Pain, 
The healing touch of Death's caressing hand! 



WINTER DREAMS 

All the voices of the wind 
Sank to slumber with the sun ; 

Lest the ways of night be blind, 
Burn the beacons one by one 

Where the bastions of the sky 

In their ancient wonder lie. 



Wide the solitudes of snow, 
Flawed by no assoiling breath, 

Slumber in the spectral glow, 
Wan as is the face of death ; 

Fixed in fear the woodland seems. 

And the air is full of dreams. 

One of this ethereal brood 
Fate has bidden comrade me: 

Suddenly my sombre mood 
Kindles to expectancy. 

And there beat within my brain 

Presages of April rain. 
89 



90 WINTER DREAMS 

Oh, for all the dreams of night, 
If this transient one has power 

So to touch the source of light, 
So to set the gloom aflower! 

Then, mayhap, to stay my need, 

In my heart were spring indeed. 



THE WHITE BIRCH 

Over the lonely uplands 

The snows of the north are blown, 
And the white birch of the forest 

At last has won to its own. 



We watched it through the spring-time, 

Clad in its silvery spray. 
And fell in a maze of wonder 

At the graceful, pale estray. 



We marked it through the summer. 

Tenuous, tall and thin, 
And we thought of it, touched with pity. 

That it sorrowed for its kin. 

We gazed on through the autumn, 
When the rich year pomps it by. 

And we saw it fold about it 
The alien gold of the sky. 

91 



92 THE WHITE BIRCH 

But now that a samite vesture 
Over all the earth is thrown, 

The white birch of the forest 
At last has won to its own. 



HOMESICK 

Here, within Winter's white domain, 
I am as one who has no place. 

For all the diverse ways contain 
No fair familiar face. 

My old-time comrades, — bees and birds, 
The little leaves that love the sun, 

With their companionable words, — 
Alas, I hear not one! 



Not one ! — and to my aching heart. 

As through this spectral realm I roam, 

Comes the inexorable smart, — 
The wander-cry for home. 

O Summer, hearken, I implore, 

You with the eyes benign and mild! 

To your caressing arms once more 
Take back your homesick child ! 



93 



WINTER ON THE HILLS 

What do the city houselings know 

Of Winter hale and hoar, 
Who crouch beside the back-log's glow 

Behind the battened door? 



Not theirs the wonder of the waste, — 
White league on league out-rolled; 

Not theirs 'neath spacious skies to taste 
The tonic of the cold! 



Not theirs the North- Wind's breath to breast 

Till each vein tingles warm 
The while he drives along the west 

The horses of the storm! 



Not theirs the snows as soft as sleep 
That hill and hollow hood; 

Nor the oracular silence deep 
Within the druid wood! 

94. 



WINTER ON THE HILLS 95 

Not theirs by night, undimmed, to mark 

The spangles of the Bear; 
Nor through the dark from arc to arc 

The pale auroras flare! 



Not theirs to share the proffered part 
Of wealth he holds in store; 

Not theirs to know the constant heart 
Of Winter hale and hoar! 



A WINTER NIGHT 

I HEAR the casement creak and clang, 
The frosted fir boughs gasp and groan; 

And the lone wind is like a hound 
That growls and crunches on a bone. 



I raise the curtain; ne'er a star 

Pricks the vast vault, but snowy spume 

Cloaks monstrous shapes that ride the night 
Like evil wraiths, and trumpet " doom! " 



The angry whip-cords of the sleet 
The windows lash, as they were fain 

To fling defiance in my face 

Through the thin rampart of the pane. 



It is as though the door of Dread 

Had yawned, with a portentous birth; 

And yet, let but the morning dawn. 
And lo, how white the peace of earth! 



96 



THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW 

The snows of death are drifting deep, 
And I have nothing left to gain, 

Save the long legacy of sleep 

Beyond the reach of joy or pain. 



But you, the lithe and strong of thew,- 
For you the onward-luring star, 

The splendors of the sun, — for you 
Youth's ardors that eternal are; 



To note the spring's ecstatic stir, 
The faint red maple-buds unclose; 

To be the violet's worshipper. 
And play the wooer to the rose; 



To watch the swallow, swift of wing. 
Soaring across the sky's blue nave; 

To hear the minstrel oriole sing, 
A rapture in each golden stave; 
97 



98 THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW 

To know love's sweet companionship 
Along the wonder-haloed height; 

To press unto the eager lip 

The purple fruitage of delight. 

Yours the glad sowing of the grain, 
The harvest happiness to reap; 

While I have nothing left to gain, 
Save the long legacy of sleep. 



IN THE MAPLE WOOD 

Crimson burn the briar-tips now 
As the sky at vesper-vow; 

And the sap within the maple 
Tingles to the topmost bough. 



From its winter-long repose 

Wakes the wood; the bonfire glows; 

Up and down the leafless arches 
Rings the clamor of the crows. 



And from early morning-dream^ 
Freed by the awakening beam, 

How the sap into the buckets 
Trickles in a silvery stream! 



Where the maples thickest throng 
Plod the toilers late and long, 

While the low voice of the caldron 
Sings its ceaseless sugar-song. ' 
99 



loo IN THE MAPLE WOOD 

Hither when the aisles grow dim 
And the pine knots flare and swim, 

Comes a group of laughing lasses, 
Cheeks aglow and eyes abrim. 

Then the merriment has flow, 
Quips go darting to and fro, 

While the more than honeyed nectar 
Turns to sugar in the snow. 

And if sweeter things than this 
Chance (a surreptitious kiss!) 

Where's the man or where's the maiden 
Who would count such joy amiss? 



For when winter's fetters part, 
And the maple juices start. 

Then it is, my maids and masters, 
Stirs the love-tide in the heart! 



JIM CROW 

Oh, say, Jim Crow, 
Why is it you always go 
With a gloomy coat of black 
The year long on your back? 
Why don't you change its hue, 
At least for a day or two. 
To red or green or blue? 
And why do you always wear 
Such a sober, sombre air. 
As glum as the face of Care? 
I wait for your reply. 

And into the peaceful pause 
There comes your curious, croaking cry,- 

" Oh, because ! 'cause ! 'cause ! " 



Oh, say, Jim Crow, 

Why, when the farmers sow, 

And the corn springs up in the row. 

And the days that once were brief 

Grow long, and laugh into leaf. 

Do you play the rascally thief? 



loz JIM CROW 

I can see by the look in your eye, — 
Wary and wise and sly, — 

That you know the code in vogue; 
Why will you, then, oh, why, 

Persist in the path of the rogue? 
I hearken for your reply. 

And into the empty pause 
There rings your graceless, grating cry,- 

" Oh, because ! 'cause ! 'cause ! " 



And say, Jim Crow, 

With all of the lore you know, — 

Lore of the wood and field. 
Lore of the clouds, and the clear 
Depths of the atmosphere. 

To our duller ken concealed, — 
Why is it you ever speak 
With a mingled squawk and a squeak? 
You, with your talents all, 

And your knowledge of this and that. 
Why must you sing like a squall. 

And talk like a perfect " flat? " 
I listen for your reply. 

But in the lapse and the pause 
AH I hear is your impudent cry, — 

"Oh, because! 'cause! 'cause!" 



CANDLEMAS SONG 

" Bruin, bruin, 
You'll be a-ruin' 
That you stuck your nose out, 
Or your toes out, 
From the cosey tavern 
Of your cavern, — 
From the dim and dun light 
Into the sunlight! 
For there's your shadow; 

See it, see it go 
Down the meadow 

And over the snow! 
But while your cave is cosey. 
It must get rather prosy. 
This sleeping and this dreaming. 
This life that's only seeming, 
For visionary honey, 
And visionary money, 
We're not suin', 
Eh, bruin, bruin? 
103 



I04 CANDLEMAS SONG 

" And bruin, bruin, 
We, too, are a-ruin' 
That same shadow 
Down there on the meadow! 
We've had enough of housing, — 

Crouching by the ingle; 

Out in the dingle 
We'd like to be carousing; 
Hearkening the jostle 
Of the wren and throstle; 
Just gazing, 
Loitering and lazing, 
Joying in our journey 
Where the ways are ferny. 
But oh, there're six weeks yet of it ! 
Ah, the gray regret of it! 
And the wind and wet of it! 
And though it's a shame 
To hold that you're to blame. 
It somehow seems as though it were your doln', 
O bruin, bruin ! " 



THE WANDERER AT HOME 

Of yore, when Mother Fate was kind, 
And I was hale and lithe of limb, 

I was the comrade of the Wind, 

And roved God's spacious earth with him. 



And now that Age hath chained me here 
Where dreams are like a tidal sea, 

He comes and gossips in mine ear 
With all his ancient comradery. 

He tells me how the Wye still glides 
By Tintern in its cloistral vale; 

And how by Isis' bowery sides 

Still pleads the leaf-hid nightingale. 

He voices the soft songs they sing 

Where Venice fronts the Adrian main, 

And the faint lyric call of spring 
Across the lone Campanian plain. 
105 



io6 THE WANDERER AT HOME 

He bids me list the Alpine horn 

From heights with spectral light ashine, 

And the young shepherd's shout when morn 
Lifts from the blue ^^gean brine. 



He iterates the pilgrim's cry, 
In that mysterious nomad land 

Where the Sphinx crouches deathlessly,- 
Allah-il- Allah, — o'er the sand. 



And ere he goes his wandering way 
He breathes the fragment of a tune 

I once heard gem-bright fingers play 
Beneath a golden Shiraz moon. 



And so, though I may roam no more 
About the world from end to end, 

Yet can I touch the furthest shore 

Who have the journeying Wind for friend. 



THE ISLE OF GLAMOURIE 

Set in the midst of a silver sea 

Is the radiant isle of Glamourie; 

In crescent coves and in coral caves 

Sink and swell the sound of the waves, 

Like the rise and fall of a tune 

Stolen out of the heart of June. 

There do marvellous portals ope 

To the precious palace-halls of Hope; 

And through the lovely labyrinth, 

Climbing pillar and clasping plinth, 

Is the slender vine of the jasmine-flower, 

Filling with fragrance every hour. 

Paved with pearl are the winding ways. 

Opal, agate, and chrysoprase ; 

And down long vistas of pendulous palms, 

With sunlight flooding the arches tall, 

Throughout the lingering noontide calms 

Waterfall calls to waterfall. 

How shall we sail o'er the silver sea 
To the radiant isle of Glamourie? 
Just at the violet verge of dark. 
Then, forsooth, is the happy time, 
107 



io8 THE ISLE OF GLAMOURIE 

For Fancy then, in her fairy bark, 

Glides away like a golden rhyme 

Over the waves to the coral caves 

And the crescent coves that the blue tide laves! 

O to come to that glorious isle 

Again with the dew-fresh heart of youth, 

With never a dream in the brain of guile, 

And never a doubt that all is truth ! 

And ah, the noble company 

In the radiant isle of Glamourie! 

There, in the deepest, dimmest dell, 

Doth the fair enchanted Princess dwell; 

There Prester John goes galloping by 

To the lilt of his stirring battle-cry; 

There doth the valorous Cid abide, 

And Roland, whom song hath glorified, — 

Haroun, the Orient's splendid star, 

Sir Galahad, the stainless knight. 

And the King who foremost flashed in the fight 

The burning brand Excalibar. 



We have all been there in the crystal air, 
Where the sweep of the sky is ever fair; 
We would all go back o'er the silver sea, ' 
Away from the world and its crowding care 
To the wonderful isle of Glamourie! 



THE FOUNT OF PAVENAY 

When morning set her crimson crown 

Upon the Easter day, 
Saint Isadore came winding down 

The paths of Pavenay. 



He saw through all the billowing land 
The Spring beside her loom, — 

The vernal magic of her hand 
In weaving bud and bloom. 



And as his footsteps drew anigh 
The huddled hamlet square, 

He heard mount up the April sky 
The plaintive sound of prayer. 

" O Thou that dwellest," cried a voice, 
" Where wells eternal flow, 

Make Thou our longing hearts rejoice, 
A healing boon bestow: 
109 



no THE FOUNT OF PAVENAY 

" Brim Thou this basin's cup once more 
With Thy reviving dew! " — 

Then forward pressed Saint Isadore 
The sealed fount to view. 



He thrust the throng aside, as chaff 
Before the wind is blown; 

And with his oaken pilgrim staff 
He smote the thirsty stone. 



It seemed as though that sturdy blow 

Cast off the choking spell; 
For lo, the fount began to flow, 

A pure and living well! 

And never, from that Easter hour. 

It ceased to sing and run. 
Through changing days of frost and flower,- 

Of shifting shade and sun. 

And ever, when the young year wore 

Her Easter garments gay, 
Rang praise to good Saint Isadore 

Through gray old Pavenay. 



AZALAIS 

It was the maiden Azalais; 

And fairer was her hair to see 

Than any garnered golden sheaf, — 

Than any ambered linden leaf 

Down drifting through the autumn days, 

When the sweet autumn days grow brief; 

And of her deep eyes, verily, 

It might be said, — no pool there lies 

Brooding, without or stain or stir, 

Beneath God's radiant reach of skies 

More wondrous than the eyes of her. 

It was the maiden Azalais; 

And one there came with casques of gold 

And gems from Ophir, and before 

Her feet outspread the precious store. 

With cunning-coined words of praise, 

With honey-hearted metaphor. 

And yet she looked upon him cold 

And haughtily, nor smiled at all; 

Fool, thus to think to win her grace 

Who purity perennial 

Wore on the rondure of her face! 



112 AZALAIS 

It was the maiden Azalais; 

And one bright-raimented In mail, 

With twi-edged falchion, scabbard drawn. 

That flashed as doth the blade of dawn, 

Made her obeisance with bold gaze, 

And craved that she would think upon 

Vale billowing upon verdant vale, 

His fief by conquest, all her own 

Would she but hearken to his suit; 

Dolt, how he slunk away alone 

When with her scorn she smote him mute! 

It was the maiden Azalais; 

And one in pilgrim russet clad, 

Yet with a bearing rapt as his 

Who knows the soul-impassioned kiss 

Of lofty love inspire his ways, 

Besought her; and her heart grew glad 

Listing to Love's sweet litanies, — 

His dear and fair and fond demands. 

Ah, wise one, thus to woo, — and win! 

For not through wealth nor falchioned hands 

Love to his kingdom enters in! 



GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 

Over the long lagoon 

The orient gold of the moon; 

Out of the gardens blown 

The rose's spicery. 

And the low and languid moan 

Of the Adriatic sea! 

Night in Venice, — night, 
With its web of spangled dreams! 
The Grand Canal alight 
With a myriad lantern-beams; 
Music in languorous bars 
From a maze of strummed guitars; 
Lattices open thrown, 
And balconies wreathed with bloom; 
Gloom? — not a ghost of gloom 
In the queenly island-town, 
(The sculptured flower of stone 
That beauty-lovers praise) 
But song borne far adown 
Through all of its water-ways! 
113 



114 GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 

Song? — aye, strain on strain, 
With ever the one refrain! 
Love, — its glamour and gleam; 
Love, — the rapture-dream ! 
And the clearest voice in all 
Of the crow^ded carnival. 
The most ecstatic note 
On the night-tide set afloat 
(Golden ripple and run 
Like a heavenly antiphon) 
That many hung mute to hear, 
Was that of a youth, — of one 
Guido, the gondolier. 



As blithe he w^as to see 

As the lad of the Latmian glen. 

The hale Endymion, when 

He wooed the queen of the night; 

Yet upon no goddess he. 

Whose song was without a peer. 

Had turned his yearning sight. 

But the Doge's daughter, pure 

As the May time of the year; 

And she loved this troubadour, 

Guido, the gondolier. 



GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 115 

The moon-smile touches the earth; 
The bird dips out of the air; 
Thus Love, of immortal birth, 
Joineth the high and low, 
Until it is theirs to know 
Bliss or divine despair. 
" The garden water-stair 
At the heart of the carnival night ! " 
This was the word that came, 
And fanned his soul to a flame. 
And thither, without a fear, 
Sped, with his oar-sweep light, 
Guido, the gondolier. 



One little liquid trill, 

Such as the nightingales spill. 

When the first star burns on the breast 

Of the violet-colored west, 

Then, a face like the sudden bloom 

Of dawn in the scented gloom! 

Afar, from wall to wall. 

Echoed the carnival; 

Song, in a passionate tide. 

Swelled, drooped, but never died; 

" Rejoice ! " all Venice cried, 



ii6 GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 

And the skies gave back, "Rejoice!" 
But a voice men longed to hear 
Was lifted not, — his voice, — 
Guido, the gondolier. 

From out of the byways dim, 

What long and shadowy shape 

Makes sudden swift escape, 

And seems like a gull to swim 

Over the broad lagoon, 

In the radiant flood of the moon? 

A gondola, wherein twain, 

Fain as a flower is fain 

Of the sun, know naught save the bliss 

Of love, and a lover's kiss! 

The Doge's daughter dear. 

And her blithesome minstrel-swain, 

Guido, the gondolier. 

Why follow them o'er the foam? 
They heeded the world-old call, 
Caught in its wondrous thrall; 
Ravenna, Rimini, Rome? — 
Nay, 'tis the Land of Love 
(Ah, the happiness thereof!) 
That is henceforth their home! 



GUIDO, THE GONDOLIER 117 

A vision of youth's delight, 
They vanished into the night, — 
The night of a bygone year, — 
The Doge's daughter fair. 
Fearless and debonair, 
And Guido, the gondolier. 



LIFT UP THINE EYES 

Comrade^ that seek'st the clue 
Of whence and whither to, 
Rather, in trust, let be 
The shrouded mystery! 
Brood not, but toward the skies 
Lift up thine eyes! 



If the sworn friendship fail, 
And fleering foes assail. 
If Love, half-deified. 
Turn scornfully aside. 
If ogre Doubt arise. 
Lift up thine eyes! 



Grip faith to thee (not fate!) 
In the good ultimate! 
With this, from sun to sun 
Until thy race be run. 
And the last daylight dies. 
Lift up thine eyes! 



ii8 



This first edition of The Lyric 
Bough consists of five hundred copies 
on laid paper and twenty -five 
copies on Ruisdael hand-made paper. 



HAR 21 1904 



WeA Z HdV 



